


Poor Soul, Poor Thing

by biextroverts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bars and Pubs, F/M, First Meetings, Gangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biextroverts/pseuds/biextroverts
Summary: Murphy gets cornered, and Emori threatens some vigilante justice.





	Poor Soul, Poor Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mohritz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mohritz/gifts).



> For the Tumblr prompt "'Something about you makes me want to commit extreme violence' + Memori," as sent to me by bihanschen, to whom this fic is gifted. This is not the direction in which I think either of us expected it to go, and for that, Ella, I am truly sorry.
> 
> Title is from "Poor Thing" from Sweeney Todd.

          The guys upstate weren't lying, Murphy thinks, for about the millionth time that night alone, when they said you couldn't get even a half-decent job with a criminal record. He'd thought that being a cashier at Walmart was the worst it could possibly get, but that was before the year he spent in prison; bartending at Jaha's is, without a doubt, far worse.

          “Hey, hot stuff!” someone calls, and Murphy looks up from the glass he's been pretending to try and scrub clean (nothing at Jaha's will ever be clean – he doesn't know how the health inspector hasn't shut this place down) for the past half an hour. The caller-out tonight is remarkably pretty, as callers-out go – she's got a few years on him, but not fifty, like they sometimes do, with dark hair and eyes and pale, raised markings on her face that might be either scars or tattoos, he can't tell which. Still, he's not looking for love at work, and certainly not with some drunken woman who's hitting on him from the other side of the bar. He goes over to her anyways, because fuck it, he wants to get paid.

          “What can I get you?” he asks, leaning against the bar in a way he hopes looks alluring – half his goddamn income comes from tips, and pushy drunk women tip better when they like what they see. The woman smiles at him, and it should look nice, on her attractive face, but it makes his stomach twist instead. She looks like the villain in a horror movie – maybe that girl from _The Ring_ , or the creepy one from _Orphan_ who's actually a thirty-six year old woman or something. Basically, it's not the kind of smile you can trust. She runs her fingertips along his arm, and he tries not to let his revulsion show. _Think about the twenty, John_ , he tells himself.

          “Well, we can start with your number and go from there,” the woman says, fingers creeping up under the sleeve of his t-shirt. She pulls away, suddenly, and becomes commanding but professional again. “Also, a Sex on the Beach, and another shot of tequila.”

          “That I can do,” Murphy says, relieved for the excuse to cross back to the opposite side of the bar, where the alcohols and glasses sit on shelves built into the wall. He takes down a highball glass, and then the vodka, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice. They appear to be out of orange juice, so he takes down the grapefruit juice instead, and hopes the woman won't notice the difference in taste. He pours the ingredients all into the highball glass and mixes them together, garnishes the drink with a sad- looking orange slice. He may be making pennies, but he's pretty damn good at bartending. He takes down a shot glass and the tequila next, pours some of the alcohol into the glass. He leaves the other alcohols and juices on the counter – someone else will want some more of them by the end of the night (he doesn't know why anyone _ever_ puts the vodka away). He carries the two glasses back to the aggressively flirty woman, sets them down in front of her. “One Sex on the Beach and one tequila shot,” he says.

          The woman downs the shot of tequila, then smiles faux-sweetly up at Murphy, who has no real reason to still be standing there except for the tips. “Do I get a name?” she asks, fingers trailing up his arm again. “And that number, if you would.” Her voice isn't as polite as her words.

          “Murphy,” Murphy says. He searches for a reason to put off giving the woman his number. “I'm afraid I don't have a pen on me right now, if you let me go get one –”

          “I have one,” the woman says. The hand that has been exploring Murphy's arm goes to his wrist in a vice grip, and with her other hand, she opens her purse and rifles through it for a writing utensil. Murphy looks around, like maybe his coworker, Caspian, might come and save him, but Caspian is nowhere to be seen – probably out on another fucking smoke break, if he hasn't just straight up left the bar.

          “If you wanna stop me skipping work, you can always tell Jaha on me,” Caspian has said, but Murphy learned his lesson about snitching while he was in prison.

          “Here we go,” the woman says, holding out a pen, and Murphy's heart sinks.

          “Bartender!”

          Both Murphy and the woman holding his wrist look up. The call has come from the other end of the bar; a woman about the same age as the one he's currently trying to escape, but with eyes that aren't as cold when she looks at him, a tattoo around one eye, and a scar running under the other. “I should attend to her,” Murphy says.

          The aggressive woman pouts. “If you must,” she says, releasing Murphy's wrist. He rubs at it as he crosses back to the woman who's called for him.

          “What can I get you?” he asks her. She bites her lip.

          “You can give that woman the what for.”

          Murphy laughs. “I'd love to, but I kind of need this job. The rent and the utility bills won't pay themselves.”

          “I know that all too well,” the woman says, laughing. After a moment, she adds, “could you make me a Tom Collins?”

          “That I could,” Murphy says. He pauses before he leaves the bar. “You want wings? On the house; you're the politest customer I've had all evening.”

          “I won't say no to wings,” the woman says. Murphy nods.

          Murphy fixes the woman her Tom Collins and a basket of wings. Her smile when she thanks him for them causes him to blush and to trip over his words. “It was – it was no problem,” he says, and her face softens with something he can't identify – he hasn't gotten softness from anyone in years, since before he fucked up and shot that woman and went off to the big house. The night goes on that way for somewhere between forty-five minutes and an hour – other customers call for him, too, but most frequently it's the aggressive one – “Ontari,” she says, fingernail scraping against his jaw – and the other one, who doesn't give a name, but who seems to have an urge for another drink every time Ontari gets more aggressive than Murphy thinks is worth putting up with for a better tip. Then Caspian comes back from his “smoke break,” which reads more like a “went home with some woman, fucked her, and then came back” break, and the other woman, the nameless one, the one he's kind of starting to think of as his hero, although heroes go to nicer bars than Jaha's, gets up to use the shitty bathroom at the back of the bar. Ontari seizes her opportunity.

          “I see you've a coworker manning the bar with you,” Ontari says, vice grip on Murphy's wrist again. “He was on break?”

          Murphy tries to escape Ontari's grasp slowly and subtly enough to escape her notice, but her nails dig into his wrist to prevent him from slipping away. “Uh, yeah,” Murphy says. “Break's not supposed to be that long, but –”

          “How long is break supposed to be?”

          Murphy swallows, hard. “Fifteen minutes.”

          Ontari smiles, and Murphy swears that smile has gotten creepier each time she's directed it at him that night. “That's enough,” she says, taking Murphy's other wrist. “There's an alley out back, isn't there?”

          “Yes,” says Murphy slowly.

          “Well, how about you take a break from service work and service me?”

          The statement is blunt, and so is its impact on Murphy – he feels like he's been punched in the gut, feels like he's going to be sick. “I don't think – I mean, that isn't – I mean, I'm not supposed to –”

          “Not supposed to what?” Ontari's expression is serious, dangerous – the people who frequent Jaha's usually are. “That tattoo on your arm shows you're an ex-con, Murphy.” Ontari says. “Don't tell me you have a problem with breaking the rules.”

          “Not – in principle,” Murphy says.

          “Come on, then.” Ontari stands, and Murphy doesn't know what to do except to follow her, frightened of what she might do to him if he doesn't. He looks helplessly back at Caspian, once, but Caspian merely shoots him a thumbs up and mouths “get some, buddy.” That's no fucking help.

          Ontari leads Murphy out the back door of the bar and into the little alley behind it. There's a dumpster there, and it stinks, and it isn't at all the kind of atmosphere he'd want, even if he wanted this, but Ontari doesn't seem to care. She pushes him to his knees. Murphy looks down at the cracked pavement sprouting through with grass and hopes that, somehow, it will animate and rise up to swallow him whole so that he won't have to go through with this, but Ontari takes his chin in one of her hands and forces him to look at her instead.

          “My pants,” Ontari says, voice steady. “Undo them.” Murphy doesn't move, and she kicks at his knees. “Undo them.” He feels profoundly ill, and wonders if maybe she'll finally leave him alone if he throws up while going down on her, but, when she kicks again, he reaches up to undo the button and unzip the zipper of her jeans.

          And then the door opens.

          By the time Murphy processes what's happening, the other woman from the bar is standing behind Ontari, a knife to Ontari's neck. Her smile isn't what one would normally call comforting – it's not so much a smile as it is a grimace, actually, feral and with teeth bared – but a rush of relief runs through him all the same. His guardian angel is apparently a rough-and-tumble twenty-eight year old woman with one gloved hand a switchblade – not what he would have expected, but he'll take it.

          “Something about you,” Murphy's guardian angel growls in Ontari's ear, “makes me want to commit extreme violence.” 

          “This isn't under your jurisdiction, _freikdreina_ ,” Ontari spits. Murphy's guardian angel emits a low noise of displeasure and turns her knife so that the edge rather than the flat rests against Ontari's jugular.

          “Whether it was or not, you've made it so by using that word against me,” his guardian angel says, pushing Ontari to her knees. Her knife never leaves Ontari's throat. “I'll show you a stain on the bloodline, _Ontari_.” She says the name like a curse, and Murphy sort of wants to ask how these two women know each other, but he also sort of wants to stay quiet and let them forget he's there, just in case either of them turns on him, and the latter is the impulse that wins. He curls into a sitting position almost against the dumpster, as far back from Ontari and his guardian angel as he can get, and watches the altercation between them.

           “You wish you could,” Ontari blusters. “But you'd never dare. The retribution from my King would be too great.”

          “You don't want to talk,” Murphy's guardian angel says, “about what I'd dare, Ontari.” She presses the knife harder against Ontari's throat, draws a thin line of blood. “I may not have people the same way you do, but I have my brother, and, even without him, I think you'd find me capable of plenty.”

          “You wouldn't take up arms against my King. And if you did, you wouldn't win.”

           “Maybe you're right.” More blood trickles from the cut the knife is pressing into Ontari's throat. “Either way, you wouldn't be around to see what happened.” Murphy's guardian angel _scrapes_ the knife across the skin of Ontari's neck, and Murphy watches with horrified fascination as Ontari tries to hold back a whimper of pain.

           “All right,” Ontari says, her voice thin. “I'll leave him alone. Just let me go.”

          Murphy's guardian angel turns the blade so that its flat rests once more against Ontari's throat. “Once I take this knife from your throat, Ontari,” she says, “you're going to turn tail and run. And I don't want to see you around Jaha's again. Not this week, not this month, not ever.”

           “You're not my boss, _friekdraina_.”

           The edge of the knife nicks Ontari's skin again. “I'd beg to disagree. Now, do we have a deal or not?” Ontari doesn't answer, and Murphy's guardian angel pushes the knife against her throat. “Do we have a deal, Ontari?”

           “Yes,” Ontari gets out through gritted teeth. “Yes. We have a deal.”

           “Good.” Murphy's guardian angel takes the knife away from Ontari's throat, and Ontari stands up, looking for a moment like she's going to start a fight. “Did you not understand some part of 'turn tail and run?'” Murphy's guardian angel asks. She flicks the switchblade closed, and then open again. Ontari shakes her head. “Good,” says Murphy's guardian angel. “Then turn tail and run.”

          Ontari turns and runs. When Murphy can no longer hear her footsteps, his guardian angel returns her switchblade calmly to her pocket, crosses to him and offers him a hand up. Murphy grunts gratefully, standing and brushing off the knees of his jeans.

          “May I ask who I have to thank for saving my ass just now?” Murphy asks, and his guardian angel cracks a small smile.

          “Emori,” his guardian angel – Emori – says, offering Murphy a handshake, which he accepts. He studies her for a moment. She doesn't look like an angel, but there is something almost fey to her, a preternatural gleam in her eyes that suggests capability for both perception and caprice, and much mischief.

          “How'd you know I was out here?” Murphy asks.

          “Asked the other bartender where his coworker had gone. Thankfully, he's not much of a secret-keeper.”

          “That's Caspian,” Murphy says tiredly. Emori laughs. “So, why'd you save me? The clientele at Jaha's don't tend to be predisposed to heroics.”

          “There's no love lost between Ontari and I,” Emori says. “If you don't know the politics behind it, you're so much the better off.” Emori's face darkens for a moment, like a cloud is passing over it. “Besides, no one deserves … what she was trying. I always knew she was one of the worst of us out here, but I wouldn't have expected that even of her. I'm sorry.”

          “'S not your fault,” Murphy says. “You didn't try anything, unless by 'anything,' you mean 'rescuing me.'”

          Emori laughs. She has the best laugh that Murphy has heard in years, equal parts “you're ridiculous” and “I enjoy you”. Since his conviction, he's mostly only been the recipient of “you're ridiculous”and its crueler cousin, “who the hell does this punk think he is” so it's … startling, he guesses, but nice, to hear something else. He chews on his lip for a moment, and swallows several times, before he manages to get his question out. “So … am I going to see you again?”

          “I'm a regular patron at this establishment,” Emori says. “As long as you keep your job, I'm sure this won't be the last time we cross paths. How come?”

          “Just – curious.”

          Emori laughs. “What's your name, by the way?” she asks.

          “Murphy,” he says, tripping a little over his own tongue. “John Murphy.”

          “Well, John Murphy, I suppose I'll be seeing you around.”

          “Yeah,” Murphy says. “Yeah. And, uh, thanks again, for – you know. Back there. Here. With Ontari.”

          “Of course,” Emori says. She smiles at Murphy one last time, then slips back into the bar. Murphy leans back against the dumpster, looking up at the smoggy city sky. He fucking _hates_ this job. But he needs to see Emori again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please comment! And tell me if you want a sequel, because highkey I do, but I also need to get the fuck back to work on "Thursday's Child Has Far To Go."


End file.
